Empty Chairs at Empty Tables
by xPinkxChopsticksx
Summary: France breaks down in the comfort of night. Implied France x Jeanne D'arc, Beware the feels.


_**I do not own Hetalia. Nor do I own the song Empty Chairs at Empty Tables.**_

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The clink of his wine glass and the small cling of his fork against the fine china he's eating is the only sound of the room. The castle dining room seemed so much colder this evening, almost impossibly so. The table Francis sat at stretched from one side of the room to the other, the candles that are lit on it are the only light in the room besides the moonlight peaking through the windows. He sits at the farthest end of the table, eating in silence. Even though he's the only one there a plate of food is to the left of him, a matching wine glass along with it; he doesn't even glance at it for a while, but eventually takes a prolonged look.

"Jeanne….your food….you must eat it else it will get cold…" Francis chokes on his own words; the pain welled in them being too much to swallow. Tears stream down his cheeks, all the hurt he's harbored inside of him shining as brightly as the moonlight. He covers his mouth as he lets out a strangled cry. With a shaking hand he uncovers his mouth and wipes away his tears. Staring down the table he sniffs, unnoticed tears still falling down his cheeks and onto his pant leg.

"There's a grief that can't be spoken. There's a pain goes on and on." His singing voice is surely a gift from the angels above him. The chair creaks as it's pushed backwards, and the sound of his shoes hit the floor. He drags his fingers against the wooden chair to his right, his footsteps sounding in the unfittingly serene night.

"Empty chairs at empty tables. Now my friends…" He stops walking at the third chair, gripping the wood so tightly his knuckles go white. Tears find their way down his face slowly now, as if he was trying to stop them all together but couldn't.

_Laughing, joyous singing. The sound of glasses hitting together as their owners drink heavily. Men with their arms around each other, a woman giggling next to him as he takes her hand and kisses it. A smile graces his face as she kisses him on the cheek._

"…are dead…and gone" A hand reaches out for the memory that is now only his, only to grab at nothing in the end. His ragged breath comes out like smoke from his mouth, he could only think that his breath should just stop forever.

"Here they talked of revolution. Here it was they lit the flame. Here they sang about tomorrow…"

_He remembered staring at her that night. She was dainty, with the hands of a florist, eyes like seawater, and short hair the color of honey. How could such a delicate thing lead them to victory in this war with England? The men ignored her as they talked of war plans, but he felt his eyes glued to her. Feeling his stare she looks up and smiles. He looks away, an embarrassed blush gracing his cheeks._

"And tomorrow….never….came…" He continues walking, his feet dragging now. The shattered pieces of his heart and soul stab him on the inside repeatedly.

"From the table in the corner they could see a world reborn. And they rose with voices ringing. I can hear them now! The very words they had sung, became their last communion, on this lonely barricade at dawn." Francis always heard their voices. Every time he was alone they would speak to him, whispering thoughts of blame and hateful accusations in his ear.

"Oh my friends, my friends forgive me. That I live, and you are gone." He could see their faces now, sitting at the chairs he walked by, so silent it almost drove him even more insane than he already must be.

"There's a grief that can't be spoken. There's a pain that goes on and on. Phantom faces at the windows. Phantom shadows on the floor. Empty chairs at empty tables…." He's at the opposite end of the table now, his tears no longer falling as he looks at all of his fallen comrades faces.

"Where my friends….will meet…no more…" They disappear as quickly as they appeared, drifting from his sight like ash in the wind. Tears fall down his cheeks once more as he gazes out over the table. And then he sees her, golden like the light you would find around an angel. Her smile is warm like sunlight and her eyes glisten with happiness. She's on the table walking towards him. He's speechless as she comes down from the table to stand in front of him. He cups her cheek with his hand, brushing away a single tear that falls from her eye.

"Oh my friends, my friends, don't ask me. What your sacrifice was for…" He leans down to kiss her, to hold her in his arms once more, when all of a sudden she's burning. Burning like that day on the cross. He falls to the floor, watching her pained face as she burns and disappears. His body racks with sobs as he stares up at the void she left in the room, the only thing in his line of sight now is the painting of the two of them from long ago, looming above the chair he always sits at.

"Empty chairs…at empty tables….where my friends…will meet no more…"


End file.
